


It's Called A Hustle, Sweetheart

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pining, con-artist!bellamy, cop!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That gets a grunt out of him. “Why me?” </p><p>“Let’s see,” she goes, tapping her nail against her chin, feigning deep thought. “Uh, it may have something to do with the fact that you’re the only thieving, morally ambiguous individual that I know of?” </p><p>“Cute.” Bellamy snorts. </p><p>Or: It has always been a part of Clarke’s plan to join the force. Partnering up with a con-artist? Not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Called A Hustle, Sweetheart

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, as usual, here's an obligatory disclaimer on how I know absolutely nothing about the justice system or how it works, so yeah, suspension of disbelief is _really_ needed here. I mean I googled some stuff, but there's only so much google can get you anyway. But that aside, enjoy!

 

It all starts out innocently enough. 

Honestly, the only reason Clarke notices him is because she’s been going to the library for the past two weeks. It’s one of the pitfalls of being relatively new in the city- having no social life to speak of, that is- and it’s not everyday you see a grown man lurking in the children’s section.

(As for why  _ she  _ is seated there, well. She likes to comfort read, okay? And no one else ever borrows the single, battered copy of Anne of Green Gables.)

Trying not to stare, she reluctantly directs her attention back to her book, fanning the pages idly between her fingers. The guy in question was regarding one of the titles with an inscrutable expression on his face, brows furrowed in concentration as he slides his fingers down its spine, leafing through the pages cursorily.

A small part of her is almost tempted to say something- maybe give him a recommendation or share one of those commiserating, sheepish head nods that have to do with being in a library on a Friday night- but he shifts before she gets the chance to, his back facing her and his head bent low over the book.

Then, with a dexterity and ease that suggests he’s done it countless times before, he _ rips _ the security tag off the book, dropping it to the floor before stuffing the book into his bag, whistling lowly under his breath.

_ What the fuck? _

Gaping, she lurches up and off her feet, bites out a hasty, “hey!”

He turns over to look at her, brow arched and distinctly nonchalant. “Hi to you too.”

That throws her for a second, and she scrambles to compose herself before continuing. “Not hey, as in  _ hello. _ ” She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I meant it like, hey! I saw what you did three seconds ago and it was  _ rude _ .”

“Does reading offend you?” He asks, innocent. “This really isn’t the place to be if it does.”

“Okay, we both know that’s not what you were doing.” She goes, stepping cleanly into his path when he attempts to sidestep her. “You were-- you’re  _ attempting  _ to steal a library book.”

He remains mostly unfazed by her statement, leaning back against a bookshelf casually. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how libraries work, princess. You see, where I’m from, you borrow them for free.”

His tone is smug,  _ patronizing _ , and she can feel her lips twist into a involuntary scowl at that. “I would think that borrowing them doesn’t involve ripping out the security tags.” Clarke retorts.

“Maybe we just do things differently here.” He says gaily, hitching his backpack higher up against his shoulder. “You’re new here, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around.”

“That’s not the point!” She blusters, marching after him as he ducks into an aisle, fingers beating out a rhythm along the shelves. “Look, I really didn’t want to have to do this, but you’re kind of forcing my hand here.”

“Oh no,” he drawls, bored. “Do tell, princess. What do you have in store for me?”

Spinning on her heel, she plants herself directly in his line of sight, blocking his path. “I’m a  _ cop _ , okay? And I don’t want to have to arrest you over--”

“You are?” He goes, with mild interest. “Where’s your badge?”

“I don’t have it  _ now _ .” Clarke says, exasperated. “Technically my first day is tomorrow, but--”

“So you’re not a real cop,” he says, squinting. “Not yet, at least.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, tamps down the urge to fling a book right at his obnoxious, smirking mouth. “It doesn’t matter, okay? You’re just delaying the inevitable by not handing the book over to me.”

“God,” he muses, resting his palm over his chest, all mock-sympathy and simpering, “you’re one of those, aren’t you? The overachieving type? I mean, it’s not even your first day and you’re out here trying to make an arrest.”

“I have valid cause for it!”

“Says the girl without a badge, or a warrant, or whatever it is you cops use to drag people off to the slammer.” He sighs, shouldering past her carefully. “Tell you what, why don’t you look me up tomorrow and you can arrest me then?”

“Right,” she snorts. “Like I’m just going to let you get away with it.”

“Fine,” he nods, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I’m going to make it real easy for you, okay? If you want to make an arrest, or lodge a complaint against me to the librarians, it’s  _ Bellamy _ . Bellamy Blake. Sufficient, or do I need to spell it out for you?”

Stopping short in her tracks, she blinks over at him. “Seriously? Don’t you care?”

“Like I said,” Bellamy says brightly, giving an enthusiastic wave to the librarian stationed by the reception. “You can’t steal a book from a library. That’s not how libraries work.”

“It is if you’re not planning on  _ returning  _ it.” She huffs, ambling after him as he strides out into the open. “It’s a felony, you know.”

He hums in agreement, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So I’ve been informed.”

“I can’t believe you’re being so cavalier about this,” Clarke breathes, feeling the all the anger and righteous indignation from before seep out of her chest. “You could go to jail.”

“Over a library book.” Bellamy says dryly, before continuing. “Right. Well, at any rate, it was nice meeting you, I guess.” It’s followed by an expectant pause of sorts, and she only picks up on the question he’s asking after an impatient jerk of his chin.

“Clarke.” She supplies, sighing.

“Clarke.” He echoes, grinning. “At any rate, you know where to find me.”

“You don’t think I’ll do it, do you?” She demands through gritted teeth. “That’s why you don’t care. You’re not taking me seriously.”

He gives a short bark of laughter, “oh no, princess. It’s not you whom I’m not taking seriously. But you’ll figure it out.”

It’s ominous, definitely, and about the most sincere thing he has said to her throughout their entire conversation. It’s enough to give her pause, faltering in her steps while he charges forward. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The only response she gets is a airy wave followed by a mock salute, before he turns the corner and disappears from sight.

 

+

Clarke Griffin, twenty four, graduated top of her class from the police academy and  _ meter maid.  _

(Wells is going to piss himself laughing when he finds out.)

 

+

She has most of her colleagues figured out by the end of the first week, and to say that the outlook was grim would be a severe understatement. 

Aside from being in charge of issuing parking tickets, Clarke is also responsible for a handful of vastly important tasks according to Chief Marcus Kane, which mostly include: refilling the coffee pot, stocking up on the stationary and making photocopies (the pinnacle of trust in an employee, evidently). Queries about how she’s not  _ actually  _ doing her job (administrative tasks does not a police officer make) would often lead to Kane going off on his usual spiel of how she is  _ indispensable _ to this team, and did she know that this is how everyone else started on the force, too?

Somehow, she has a lot of difficulty believing that John Murphy got his start doling out cups of coffee.

“I’m a glorified administrative assistant in a uniform.” She announces, barging into forensics.

To her credit, Raven- her one friend on the force- doesn’t even lift her head from the sheaf of papers in her hand. “Well,” she says instead, conversational, “you  _ are _ the only one who can pull off that fetching shade of orange.” (This may or may not be a common conversation topic at hand.)

Groaning, she slumps down onto a vacant stool, picks at the stray thread hanging off Raven’s lab coat. “How is it that I’m actually envious of your uniform?”

“The perks of being a forensic tech.” She replies, tart. “Isn’t it your lunch break right now?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Clarke mutters, burying her face against her sleeve. “Bemoaning the state of my career.”

Raven hums in response, pats at her head absentmindedly. “You know, we could still do that. But over  _ sandwiches _ instead.”

She lifts her head, tries to muster the energy to glare. “Just come right out and say that you want me to pick up lunch already.”

“Clarke,” she chirps, saccharine sweet, “could you please pick up lunch? I have a report due at three.”

Sighing, she heaves herself up by her elbows. “Only because I like you so much.”

To be fair, the grumbling is largely for show considering she doesn’t mind all that much, not really. At least heading out gives her the opportunity to stretch her legs and explore the shops a few streets down; provides her with an escape from the stifling blanket of heat that seems to have fallen over the precinct. She places an order for the sandwiches, grabs a buzzer, and starts walking.

The first few boutiques don’t really pique her interest, but she does stop at the knock-off starbucks to grab a cup of coffee before continuing on her way. It’s nice and cool outside, not too crowded either, and she finds herself lingering by a book display, going through the blurbs for a few of them. They’re all hardbacks and expensive looking, leather bound with fancy dust jackets; the kind that her father used to have lined up along his office.

Curiosity is what prompts her to check for the prices, though she almost wishes she  _ hadn’t.  _ Blanching, she sets a yellowing copy of The Railway Children back onto the table gingerly, backing up a few steps after.

“You know, I have a copy of Anne of Green Gables by the back if that’s more your speed.” A voice proclaims, wry, and she shrieks in surprise, grabs at the table to keep from falling.

She shoots him a withering look after, dusting her palms off on her pants. “That’s  _ not  _ funny.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, raising his hands up placatingly; though it comes off mocking on him considering he’s still  _ smirking _ at her, “did I scare you, officer?”

“You wish.” She spits, even though she can still feel her pulse skittering uneasily against her chest. “What the hell are you doing here anyway? Come to steal more books?”

Bellamy straightens, has the gall to look a little offended at her statement. “Are we still on that?”

“Yes, because I know what I saw.” She demands, wheeling after him as he ducks into the interior of the store. “And I’m doing something about it. Once I have my proof, that is.”

“Sure.” He says, bemused, sliding behind the counter fluidly. “It’s always a good idea to have a hobby. Keeps you occupied.”

“Law enforcement is  _ not  _ a hobby.”

He eyes her slyly, tapping his pen against the table top. “You really think so?”

The realization that it was the incompetence of the precinct he was referring to a few days ago makes her flush. “ _ Yes, _ ” she says hotly, refocusing her attention back on him. “You shouldn’t be back there, you know. It’s employees only.”

Wordlessly, he retrieves a business card from the stack, hands it to her.

Clarke leans forward, takes one between her fingers. Cream, heavy-duty, and right there at the top:  _ Blake’s Books. _

“No,” she draws back, horrified. “Tell me you don’t own this place.”

He quirks a brow over at her. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s not you owning a bookstore that’s incomprehensible,” she says, dropping the card back onto the counter. “Just tell me you’re not _selling_ stolen books on your establishment.”

“There’s probably something to be said about making false allegations here, officer.” He goes, casual as can be. “What was it about our justice system? Innocent until proven guilty or something like that?”

“God,” Clarke seethes, resisting the urge to stomp her foot. “You’re incorrigible.”

That gets a smile out of him. “I’ve been told,” he says, bright. “Now, what’s the problem here? You seem tense. Or maybe that’s your natural state.”

“I’m  _ fine. _ ” She declares, stubborn. It’s not her intention to divulge anything- especially to a con-artist, of all people- but she finds herself continuing anyway, “just some issues at work. It’ll work itself out.”

He scoffs, looking over at her. “You actually get any police work done or are you just relegated to whatever admin task they need done?”

She grunts, admits a tad grudgingly, “the latter.”

A beat passes before he shrugs, and with forced lightness, “that’s not unexpected.” There’s a tinge of sympathy in his voice, and for some reason, it makes her feel strangely fond of him.

“Yeah,” she manages, shooting him a rueful smile. “I should-- I should probably go, though. This,” she lifts her arm awkwardly, showing him the buzzer in her palm, “uh, it buzzed a while back.”

The smirk makes a reappearance at that. “Are you going to make more false accusations the next time I see you, officer?”

“Cute.” She replies dryly, “You just wait, Blake. You’ll slip up one day.”

“Until then.” He agrees, and with deliberate casualness, slides a book over to her. “But in the meantime.”

She glances down at it warily. “Seriously? You’re giving this to me?”

Another one of those shrugs, full-bodied and languid. “Might as well find a good way to pass the time at the precinct, right?”

 

+

The book he gifts her is Charlotte’s Web, strangely, but she reads it all the same anyway.

No one really cares what she does at work (judging from the way they shoot down every single one of her suggestions) but she still opts to hide it under her desk, propping it up by resting it against her thighs. It’s a good distraction, keeps her from  _ yelling  _ at her colleagues about how badly they are handling the issue of rising gang activity in Arkadia. (Kane insists that they are withholding action until further notice. It sounds a lot more like burying their heads in the sand, but apparently her opinion doesn’t  _ matter _ , so.)

She takes it out again after dinner, finishes the last few chapters before calling up Wells.

“Took you long enough,” he says the second he picks up.

“I’m a meter maid.” Clarke says in response, because hey, might as well rip off the bandaid, right?

There’s a short, awkward pause. “So, I’m guessing your job is everything you dreamt of and more?” He hazards, teasing, and she groans, drops her head back against the wall.

“It’s the most backward, misogynistic work environment I’ve ever been in.”

“So quit.” He prompts, in that perfectly reasonable way of his.

She glares at the single crack in the ceiling, allows herself to wonder if sustained staring would lead to spontaneous combustion. “I  _ can’t _ . That sounds like something a quitter would do, and I am not a _ quitter. _ ”

“No one’s saying that.” Wells points out, sounding mildly exasperated. “I’m saying that there isn’t a point in staying at a job that makes you unhappy.”

“And I’m saying that I’m going to find a way to prove all these idiots wrong.”

“You’re impossible.” He grouses, the sound warping into static as it travels down the line.

“Yeah, yeah.” She goes, waving him off. “I’m not entirely sure how to go about doing it- at least not yet- but you should have heard them talking about this gang situation we’re having today. Their idea of a solution is pretty laughable.”

There’s a tangible pause, though he sounds genuinely intrigued when he continues, “what sort of gang situation?”

She forgets, sometimes, that Wells lives a million miles away instead of right by her side (as he’s always been). “Okay, so, as far as I know there are two rival gangs in Arkadia, alright? So while they never actually got along or anything, we never had to deal with bodies before. Well, not until now, at least. There’s been three homicide cases in the past month and they’ve all been connected to these gangs, somehow.”

“So the deceased are all gang members?”

“Two from skaikru, and one from trikru.” She sighs, shifting her phone to rest against her shoulder while she steeples at her temples with her fingers. “We can’t seem to find any other connection except that they’re all gang members. So that bodes well, of course.”

He hums his agreement, the shrill shriek of his kettle in the background nearly drowning him out and the familiarity of it makes her ache, reminds her of how they used to spend their nights nursing cups of hot chocolate all while discussing their futures.

“Have you considered that it might be a third party?”

“That was my natural assumption,” she goes, snapping out of her reverie. “But we don’t have all that much information on them in the first place, you know? Jasper suggested going through all the old case files we have on them, but it’s not actually going out and  _ doing  _ something about the situation.”

“He does have a point, in the sense that you shouldn’t go into anything without having enough information about it first.” Wells muses, amusement coloring his tone. “I’m not going to bring up the whole piercing incident.”

Clarke decides to interject before he can spiral into one of the many stories he has heard (or witnessed) about her terrible life choices, “Don’t start. But yeah, I really don’t think looking into case files from five years back is going to help the current situation.”

He laughs. “Well, you could always put up a classified about this. I was thinking, ‘rookie cop seeks gang member, only current ones may apply, contact at--”

“Shit!” She jerks upright, wincing at the flare of pain that spikes along her spine at that, “Wells, you’re a  _ genius _ .”

“Oh god,” he announces, sounding decidedly wary. “What did I do?”

“Nothing.” She beams, settling back down onto her perch. “I just realised that I have a mildly shady, borderline criminal to consult on about this.”

Wells sighs, and she can practically  _ see _ him pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Just do me a favor and don’t get yourself killed? Or maimed?”

“I’ll try.” She chirps, grinning, hanging up just as he gives a weary, long-suffering groan.

 

+

The situation was a delicate one (one to be handled with  _ tact,  _ she reminds herself _ ),  _ so grabbing an extra cup of coffee before heading down seemed to be a good idea. 

“I don’t know how you take it,” she says in lieu of an greeting, plopping the cup down carefully against the counter, “but I’m hoping you drink it black?”

Bellamy makes a face at that, shoots her a disgruntled look. “Definitely not.”

“Great!” She continues brightly, pasting a smile on her face. “Good thing I brought sugar packets, huh?”

He eyes her suspiciously, but takes the cup anyway. “What are you really here for, officer?”

“What makes you think I have an agenda?”

“Since you threatened to arrest me the last two times.” He says, droll, barreling on despite her sputtering, fervent denial. “But please, do go on. I’m kind of interested in what you have to say now.”

Rocking back on the balls of her feet, Clarke summons the most pleading expression she can muster under the circumstances. “I  _ may  _ need your help for a case that I’m working on.”

That gets a grunt out of him. “Why me?”

“Let’s see,” she goes, tapping her nail against her chin, feigning deep thought. “Uh, it may have something to do with the fact that you’re the only thieving, morally ambiguous individual that I know of?”

“Cute.” Bellamy snorts.

“I’m being serious here.” She declares earnestly, planting her elbows onto the countertop and drawing closer. “Have you been reading the news reports? About all the gang activity?”

“I try not to read the news when I can help it.” He quips, ripping apart a sugar packet with his teeth. “That’s how I stay happy and optimistic all the time.”

“Cute,” she echoes, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m sure you know about the bodies, at least.”

Dumping a whole pack’s worth into his cup, he averts his gaze long enough to arch his brow at her. “A triple homicide is worth  _ something  _ even on a slow news day.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the full story.”

There’s a spark of interest in his eye now, cleverly disguised, she realises, by focusing on tearing into another sugar packet. “So what is?”

“Like I said,” she shrugs, leaning back. “Gang activity. Considering the victims were all members from respective gangs.”

He’s alert now, straightening surreptitiously under her careful gaze. “By gangs, you mean Trikru?”

“And Skaikru, yeah.” She continues, popping the lid off her own cup and blowing on it lightly. “I’m hoping that you know more about them than I do, at least.”

“You could say that.” He says, curt, flashing her a tight smile at her inquisitive stare. “Uhm, yeah. I guess there are some people I can talk to, poke around a little bit.”

“That’s it?” She asks, scarcely able to believe it. “Just like that, and you’re willing to help?”

The exasperation on his face is evident when he looks over at her, “you asked for my help, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think you’d  _ agree _ .”

“Maybe I’m just a lot more noble than you thought.” He says dryly, punctuating the statement with an eye-roll before dropping his empty cup into the trash. “I do appreciate the coffee, though.”

“That’s a distinct possibility.” She says, adopting an expression of intense scrutiny. “Though I think it’s more about you having a personal stake in this.”

She didn’t think that he’d say anything in response to that- not from the guarded look in his eyes, at least- plus it would be easy to evade her question with one of his smart remarks.

But there’s a stillness to his face when he looks over at her this time, a hint of a smile edging against his mouth. When he speaks, it’s quiet, low. “You’re a pretty good cop, Clarke.”

 

+

They don’t make much progress on the case over the next few days- unless Clarke terrorizing the people over at archives to hand over all past files on the respective gangs counts- and it’s shaping up to be a terrible week until Bellamy emails her. 

(Well, she’s pretty sure it’s Bellamy, at least. She doesn’t have a lot of friends who like to make mythology references in their emails.)

Clarke spends a few minutes deliberating if she should call the number attached to his email signature before she gives in, ducking into one of the tiny alcoves by the break room for privacy before dialling.

“It’s me,” she says when he picks up.

There’s a loaded pause before he goes, dry. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how the song starts, babe.”

“What?” There’s a prickly flush working its way up from her neck, and she swats frantically at her forehead, trying to fan it away. “I’m not-- it’s  _ me _ , you idiot. Clarke? Officer Clarke?”

He gives a amused chuckle. “I know who you are.”

“So you shouldn’t call me-- whatever you just called me.”

“I don’t know,” he muses, giving a pointed yawn. “It’s kind of fun, seeing you all worked up like that.”

“Shut up.” She says, automatic, kneading at the space between her brows where she can feel a pounding headache forming. “Listen, about your email. You’re heading down in an hour, right? Because I’d really like to come with you.”

“What? Clarke,  _ no _ .”

“Why not?” She hisses, casting a furtive look over at Murphy when he passes. “I could take my lunch break now and meet you by the store.”

The noise he makes is downright impatient, “I really don’t think my contact is going to talk to us when she realises that you’re a  _ cop _ .”

Resisting the urge to make a cutting remark, she makes sure the place is empty before she steps out of the alcove, shrugging on her coat as she goes. “You know, you’re not all that creative for someone who’s a supposed criminal. Make something up, Bellamy.”

“How is any story going to be convincing at this point?” He huffs, and distantly, she can make out his muted curse at the sharp blare of a car horn. “I can handle it on my own.”

“I’ll see you in a few.” She says sweetly, and this time he doesn’t even bother to lower his voice when he gives a colorful swear.

The streets are relatively crowded upon her exit, thinning out as she makes her way down to the store. There’s a small part of her that’s a little worried that Bellamy could have left without her, but she dismisses it easily. He was surprisingly easy to trust for someone who stole books and sold them for a living. (Not that she’d ever tell him that.)

He’s hovering by the entrance when she spots him, hair mussed and looking positively  _ grumpy  _ at her arrival.

“She’s not here yet, is she?” Clarke asks, drawing up next to him.

“No.” He mutters, casting her a petulant glare. “Maybe she sensed your distinctively self-righteous, persistent,  _ cop-like _ personality and made a run for it.”

“Funny.” She deadpans, scouring the crowd for anyone that stands out in particular. “What’s her name?”

“Echo.” He says, worrying at his lip anxiously. “She’s one of the Trikru. We, uh. Haven’t spoken in a while but I’m hoping she’ll know something.”

She’s almost tempted to ask  _ how  _ he knows her, but the realization that someone is staring at them stops her short. Inhaling sharply, she leans a little closer to Bellamy, linking their fingers together.

He startles at that, looks downright bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“It’s our cover story.” She says through gritted teeth, reaching up with her free hand to brush his hair out of his eyes (it’s as soft as she expected it to be). “Just go with it, please.”

“You’re joking.” He says, sounding a little faint. Honestly, it would have been a little  _ funny  _ if it wasn’t obvious how thrown he is by it all.

“I wish I was.” She says, forcing a smile, before turning away to deal with the rapidly approaching figure.

Her gait is cautious, expression unsure, but there’s a kind of hardness in her gaze that Clarke can’t help but admire, just a little. The only form of acknowledgement she gets is a jerky head nod before Echo turns her attention back to Bellamy. “You asked for me?”

“Yeah.” He says, shooting her a weak smile. “Some questions to ask, that’s all.”

“Sure.” Echo goes, dismissive, then a little  _ too  _ casually, “who’s the girl?”

He pauses, throat bobbing audibly as he swallows. Then, composing himself, “this is Clarke. She’s uh, my--”

“I’m his girlfriend.” Clarke interjects, pressing her full weight against him and shooting Echo a toothy, wholly false smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” She replies, flat, wheeling on Bellamy almost instantly after. “Maybe leave your girlfriend out here while we head in to discuss?”

Tapping her thumb pointedly against his wrist bone, she takes a deep breath, working to keep her voice light and breezy. “But he wants me there. Right, babe?”

He turns to look at her, still looking a little dazed. “Right,” he confirms, giving a slow, sure nod.

Beaming, she resists the urge to chime in with a spiteful comment, settles for going on her tiptoes and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to Bellamy’s cheek instead. He doesn’t make a big production out of it, thankfully, his only reaction being a shaky, drawn-out exhale.

Echo still looks thoroughly unimpressed when they separate, but resigned, too. “Fine,” she sighs, folding her arms across her chest. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

 

+

There’s not all that much to be gleaned from their conversation with Echo- she’s just as much in the dark as they are- but at least they get a name out of it. 

“And you’ve never heard of him before?” She presses, jostling at his arm when he appears distracted. “Bellamy. Hey.  _ Hey _ .”

“Cage?” He asks, finally looking over at her. “No. I don’t know who he is, but that’s what you’re going to find out, right?”

She nods, tries not to sound too despondent when she adds, “well, at least whatever I can get from the official records, that is.”

“I’ll do some more poking around.” He promises grimly, halting so abruptly in his steps that she collides against his shoulder painfully.

“ _ Bellamy. _ ”

But he’s not even looking at her, his gaze fixed on their reflection in the store window as he scrubs at his cheek grouchily. “Jesus fuck, Clarke. What kind of lipstick is this?”

The smudge is faint against his skin now, but the streak of pink is still evident under the light. Scowling, she flicks at his shoulder, feeling a little irritable at his over-the-top-reaction. “Will you stop being such a baby about it? It’ll go away.”

“How are people supposed to take me seriously when it looks like I have no regard for personal hygiene?” He demands.

Clarke snorts, sneaks a surreptitious peek at his hair. “It’s not your cheek you should be worrying about, if that’s the case.”

“Rude.” He huffs, shooting her a wounded look.

She hums her response, gives an exasperated sigh when he tries rubbing it off by pressing his cheek against the fabric of his shirt. “Look, I’d love to stay and watch you be incompetent, but I have to get back to work.”

That gets a grunt out of him. “You think anyone has noticed your absence yet?”

“Jerk.” She fires back, jabbing him lightly in the ribs when he throws her one of his usual infuriating smirks.

Thankfully, he relents soon after, turning away from his reflection. “I’ll walk you back to the station.”

“You don’t  _ have  _ to.” She muses, but it seems pointless to argue when they’re heading in the same direction anyway. Shrugging, she falls into step right next to him, tilting her head back to soak up the last of the sun’s rays.

(There probably isn’t a need for him to keep holding her hand either, but it’s  _ nice  _ and Clarke’s not going to bring it up if he isn’t.)

 

+

The realization that she’s completely missed her lunch hour only sinks in after Raven comes looking for her. 

“Fuck,” she declares upon her arrival, sounding vaguely horror-struck at the sight of the overturned boxes and files scattered at her feet, “what the hell is going on?”

Grimacing, Clarke kicks at a stray box in her path. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Are they trying to convince you that reorganizing the archives is a good idea?” She asks worriedly, the words tailing off into a curse at the sight of the several papers stuck to the bottom of her shoe. “Because I can assure you that it is most definitely a terrible one.”

“They’re not trying to get me to do anything.” She admits, unable to keep the reproach from her tone. “ _ That’s  _ the problem.”

The statement warrants an eyebrow raise on Raven’s part. “So… you decide to impress them by coming up with a new filing system?”

She finally spots the case file under a haphazard stack of papers, yanks it out with a flourish. “More like locate a new lead for a case they’re already working on, actually.”

“Huh,” Raven goes, thoughtful. “That’s brilliant, actually. And you’ll get to show them up, which is even better.”

“That’s the dream.” Clarke says, giving a dramatic, wistful sigh, bursting into laughter when Raven clips the back of her neck lightly. “Hey!”

“I mean that’s great and all. But you still have to  _ eat _ , okay?”

Wiggling out of her grip, she drops her chin on Raven’s shoulder instead. “How about you? Eaten yet?”

She shrugs, dislodging Clarke from her perch. “I got a whole bunch of stuff from the vending machine, so I’m set. I can cover for you if you want to go grab a sandwich or something.”

“I’m just getting a coffee.” She murmurs, eyes watering when she forces back yet another yawn. “Sure you don’t need anything?”

“Nah.” Raven says, flopping down gracelessly onto the ground and laying her head against her arm. “You think anyone would notice if I just took a nap right here?”

“Knock yourself out.” She laughs, tucking the folder under her arm and closing the door quietly before her.

Technically, there’s no need to approach Bellamy with this information immediately- she could always look through the file first and email him the gist after- but she finds herself buying two coffees and a few pastries anyway, taking the winding path so she could  _ conveniently _ drop by the bookstore.

It’s the right thing to do, she reasons, readjusting her hold on the file. They’re partners of sorts and it was only  _ fair  _ to keep him updated on the ongoings of the case, right? (Her stomach feels a little fluttery at the thought of seeing him again, but that’s probably just the coffee.)

Ducking into the store, she winces at the shrill sound of the bell, sets her bag down on the countertop. “Hey. Busy?”

He looks up from his book, smiling crookedly at her. She tries not to gawk at the addition of glasses sliding along the bridge of his nose, the sweater that stretches tightly over his chest.

“Not really,” Bellamy goes, conversational, snapping the book shut. “As you can tell, the book industry isn’t exactly booming these days.”

Biting back a smile, she asks, “is this a prelude to a confession? Should I have brought my cuffs?”

“Ha,” he deadpans, getting to his feet. “Cute.”

Humming her response, she slides him a cup of coffee along with the file in question. “I was thinking we could look at it together.”

“Sure,” he says wryly, smoothing out the creases along the folder with his thumb. Then, gently, “you didn’t have to get me another coffee, you know. I’m not going to stop helping you just because I’m not caffeinated or anything.”

“I know.” She says, the words slipping off her tongue easily. (She tries not to dwell on how much she  _ believes _ it; that someone like Bellamy would still help her despite having no personal gain from the situation whatsoever.) “I just-- I just thought it would be nice.”

A beat passes, his smile growing wider and the look in his eyes indescribably fond. “Well, for future reference; I like vanilla lattes.” 

She makes a face at that, poking her tongue out from between teeth. “Ugh.”

“I don’t want any judgment from you, miss-black-coffee-with-one-sugar.”

“That’s how coffee is meant to be drunk.” Clarke grumbles, pitching forward on her toes so they could crowd over the file together. “Not with all the artificial sweetener and sugar and gimmicks.”

He clucks his tongue over at her appraisingly. “You sound like a grandma.”

“Don’t care.”

“I’m making you repeat this back to me ten years down the road when you’re complaining of back pain.” He retorts, poking at her ribs lightly. “You know I have an actual table with some chairs in my office, right?”

Peering around the small space, she arches a brow at him. “You have a office?”

“I’m insulted that you even had to ask.” He declares primly, beckoning her forward. “I’m a  _ professional,  _ Clarke. What do you take me for?”

His office, as it turns out, is his apartment located by the top of a flight of rickety, narrow stairs, and she has to bite back a smile when he has to hunch over to unlock the door.

“Don’t laugh.” He gripes, pushing the door open with his foot. “It’s convenient for me to get to work everyday.”

“I didn’t say anything.” She goes, working to keep her voice innocent before stepping past the threshold, reminding herself not to stare.

It’s kind of how she pictured his apartment to be- cozy, a mishmash of threadbare furniture and books scattered everywhere, several jackets looped over chairs and coffee stirrers peeking out of books like makeshift bookmarks- and right smack in the middle of the room, a crime board.

Fascinated, she reaches forward, grazes the edge of a newspaper cutting with her fingertips. “Wow. We don’t even do this back in the precinct.”

He frowns, looking a little put-out. “Well, I guess the movies lied.”

“We use a intelligence analysis platform now.” She informs him, picking at a red string pulled taut over two points. “Considering it’s the age of technology and all.”

“ _ Technology _ .” He mutters darkly, before dropping back onto the sofa.

“Who sounds like a old person now?.” She teases, absent minded, swinging her gaze back to the board at hand. It’s pretty much a rehash of what they already know, except for the lone photo stuck to the bottom right of the board; a girl, dark-haired and pretty, grinning widely at the camera and her arms thrown around a broader figure. Hastily scrawled at the bottom of the photo is a barely decipherable  _ Octavia.  _

Retrieving the photo carefully, she presses the pin back into a spare inch of space on the board. Then, steeling herself, she turns to ask, “who’s this?”

There’s a small, awkward pause- long enough for her to contemplate if Bellamy might simply try to brush away the question- before he relents, swallowing audibly as he settles back in his seat. “That’s my personal stake.” he goes, quiet, then a little louder after: “She’s my sister.”

Clarke tightens her grip on the photo. “You mean--”

“Yeah.” He interjects, weary, closing his eyes at the words (maybe he was tired of hearing them, too). “She joined trikru, a few years back. That’s why I cared so much when first I found out. That’s who I’ve been trying to find all this time.”

It makes her feel better, somehow, having the truth laid out so clearly before her; makes everything so much easier to rationalize, the nagging edges of worry and doubt from before softening infinitesimally at the thought:  _ he’s doing it for his sister. _

Clearing her throat, she pins the photo back in place. “Any luck?”

“No.” He says, quiet, lifting his gaze to finally meet hers. “I’m hoping-- I want--”

“We’ll figure it out.” She tells him firmly, and mostly because she can’t resist, “Any other surprises you have for me before we get on with it?”

That gets a small, private smile out of him, his gaze landing on the spot behind her before he goes, perfectly pleasant, “not really. Except, well. Have you met my cat?”

“Wait,” she pauses, mouth dropping open to gape. “What?”

He introduces her to Catticus after- trust Bellamy to name him that, of all things- and it’s nice to be able to do something normal for a little while, batting a pair of old oven mitts for him to chase while sprawled on the floor.

“You’re such a nerd,” she says in varying tones of disbelief, turning away only so she could coo at Catticus when he brushed up against her legs, meowing. “It’s just-- really, Bellamy? I can’t believe you.”

“How are you so surprised when you’ve seen my email address?” He grumbles, swatting Catticus away impatiently when he strides over to twine himself between Bellamy’s legs. “It’s not like I keep it a secret. I’m not  _ subtle. _ ”

“Yeah, but,” she shrugs, popping the last of the cookies into her mouth. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were a threat, you know? Turns out you steal library books and take in stray cats and give them geeky,  _ terrible  _ names. If I ever told someone about you without context, they’d think you’re a sixty year old named Muriel.”

“Weren’t you trying to get me arrested, like, a mere six hours ago?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I mean I still think what you’re doing is fundamentally shitty.” She points out, slumping back into the cushions and relaxing into his side, “but uh. You know. Not all that bad in the grand scheme of things.”

That gets a snort out of him. “High praise, coming from you.”

“Shut up.” She mutters, bumping her shoulder against his before giving in and dropping her face against the crook of his shoulder. He’s warm and  _ comfortable,  _ Catticus bounding up and curling in the crevice between their thighs, and it would be so easy to fall asleep like this, she thinks, feeling safe and contented and relaxed.

(He had that effect on her, mostly. She tries not to dwell on it.)

Suppressing a yawn, she pushes her face against his shoulder, talking into his sleeve. “We should really come up with an action plan on where to go from here.”

“We’ll figure it out.” He mumbles, his breath warm against her forehead. They’re close enough that she can feel the bob of his throat when his fingers curl over her hipbone, steadying her, slow enough that she could demur away if she wanted to.

Closing her eyes, she releases a shaky exhale, pushing closer into his warmth. For some strange, inexplicable reason, she’s more awake now than ever.

 

+

Generally, Clarke makes it a point to tune out John Murphy whenever he starts talking, but in this case it’s particularly difficult considering he was talking about the case she was working on. (Well, secretly, that is.)

Specifically, he was talking about  _ dropping  _ it entirely, which of course piques her interest.

“Think about it,” he says, in that smug, pompous way of his. “There’s been little to no activity in weeks. Maybe the last few incidents had been flukes, you know? Some sort of spat between the two groups that ended badly.”

“A spat,” Miller deadpans, exaggeratedly slow, “that led to dead bodies.”

He shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “You never know with them, right?”

There’s a beat where they exchange pained, commiserating looks (Clarke is particularly good at pulling those in the station, Miller is the only one who’s remotely amused by it) before he goes- in that quiet way of his that she knows means he’s being serious- “and I guess justice is too much to ask for now, huh?”

“What about it?” He shoots back, deliberately obtuse in a way that’s obviously meant to rile Miller up, and yeah, that’s about when Clarke decides to tune back out again, feeling vaguely sick to the stomach, because, well.

It’s never really been about  _ justice  _ for her either- more of a means to an end, a way of proving herself to everyone else- and admitting it to herself now just brings about a wave of shame that threatens to undo her.

Blinking away the tears stinging against the back of her eyelids, she refocuses her attention on the line of notes she had written about the case, (cleverly hidden in yet another one of the books Bellamy has given her- The Golden Compass, this time) the scrawled row of question marks in the margin next to the address they unearthed. It led to one of those warehouse storage spaces, though with no way to determine if anyone of them belonged to Cage, Bellamy had simply added it to the crime board and left it as it is.

But maybe there was.

Dropping the book back onto her lap, she lurches forward in her seat, scrambling for her phone.

“Hey Monty,” she says, lowering her voice at Miller’s curious gaze, “what do you know about surveillance cameras?”

 

+

Okay, in retrospect, maybe heading over to Bellamy’s apartment at one in the morning wasn’t  _ such  _ a stellar idea. 

“Hey,” she manages, breathless, when he finally opens the door. “You have wifi, right?”

His only response is to stare, all rumpled hair and distractingly barechested. “What?”

“Wi-fi.” She repeats impatiently, dragging the syllable out from between her teeth. “Internet. I need it. We have a lead and the wifi at my apartment is on the fritz.”

Running a palm over his face, he groans, but steps aside so she can enter anyway. “And it couldn’t wait until morning because…?”

“It’s a stakeout, Bellamy.” She informs him loftily, plopping down onto his sofa and booting up her laptop. “That happens to be a 24/7 thing, you know.”

Yawning, he plops down next to her, his arm searingly hot against hers. “Who are we stalking again?”

“I got a friend to hack in the security cameras over at the warehouse so we can keep an eye out for Cage.” She explains, turning the screen over to him. “See? Like this, maybe we can figure out what he’s keeping in there. I bet it has something to do with the gang situation.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, slumping back against the cushions. “But do we really have to do this at one in the morning, though? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep an eye out when the place is  _ actually  _ open?”

“You think some sort of master criminal goes by during regular opening hours?”

Bellamy sighs, drops his head down to rest his forehead against her shoulder. “Clarke, you thought  _ I  _ was a master criminal the first time you met me. Newsflash, criminals. They’re not all that different from us! Well, you at least.”

“Just trust me on this.”

“Fine.” He grumbles, staggering to his feet. “I’ll make us coffee.”

“You don’t have to stay up with me.” She calls out, noting the exhausted slump of his shoulders. “I can handle this.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “Sugar or do you like it as black as your soul?”

Hitching her knees up to her chest, she buries her face against them, hiding a smile. “Black please.”

She thinks she can make out a murmured noise of disapproval from the kitchen, but she’s already turned her attention back to the screen anyway. The complex remains dark, no movement whatsoever from any of the many flickering screens and so she relaxes, resting her head back on a pillow.

He has a shirt on the next time he shuffles back into the room (Clarke mourns at the loss of peeking at his abs every few minutes, but a distraction like that wouldn’t be a good idea anyway) and takes the cup from him gratefully, breathing in the comforting scent.

“Thank you.” she manages, taking a careful sip. “And, uh. You really don’t have to stay up with me, you know? I basically barrelled into your house and hijacked your wifi, so you have no obligation to stay up for this shit show.”

The statement earns her a pointed, exasperated eye roll. “I heard you the first time, officer.” He grumbles, his gaze shifting to the computer screen before flitting back to her, mouth dropping open comically. “Wait-- did you say you got your friend to  _ hack  _ into the security camera system?”

Pretending to pick at some dirt from under her fingernails, she gives a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe.”

“As in,” his eyes widen, the cup shaking slightly in his grip, “ _ illegally _ ?”

“Shut up.” Clarke mutters, shooting him a venomous look when he begins to chortle. “Cut it out! I felt bad enough as it is.”

“I figured.” He laughs, the sound morphing into a yelp when she nudges him hard enough in the ribs for the liquid to slosh past the rim. “Alright, alright, I get it! If it’s any consolation, I take full responsibility for your shift to the dark side, okay?”

“Good.” She says, a tad viciously. “Because it is your fault. You’re rubbing off me.”

“Shame.” Bellamy drawls, grinning over at her. “If it’s any consolation, your-do-gooder ways are sort of rubbing off on me too.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” He goes, working to keep a straight face. “I recycled today.”

She mimes an expression of complete shock, then as dryly as possible, “wow, Bellamy. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I didn’t think so either.” He says, smug, then so abruptly it comes out it a rush, “I placed an order for a new shipment of books, too.”

It takes her a minute to decipher the intention behind his words, but she can’t help beaming when she realises what he’s trying to say, grabbing at his hand impulsively, “really?”

He averts his gaze from her, the tips of his ears flushing red. “Shut up.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m partaking in illegal activities now, apparently.” Clarke laughs, squeezing at his palm once. He squeezes back with equal force, smiling a little to himself.

And she can’t help but wonder, really, what it meant that they could change each other like this; in what seemed like the smallest possible of ways that still felt monumental, somehow, the slow but inexorable shift of mountains. She knew, deep down, that you didn’t give someone the power to affect you so deeply unless they meant something to you. Bellamy, it seemed, had joined the list of people who could.

“We should take turns,” he says, breaking the warm, even silence that had fallen over them. “How about I take first shift?” 

Sliding her hand out of his, she settles back against the cushions, worrying at her lip. “That should be my line, right?”

“Not when you’ve exhausted yourself already.” He frowns, reaching past her to grab at the afghan thrown carelessly over the sofa arm, draping it over her instead. “Take a nap? I’ll wake you in about two hours.”

A part of her is almost tempted to argue, really, to put her foot down and insist she take the first shift instead- but he’s right, she  _ is  _ exhausted, and his steady, even presence only served to lull her further- so Clarke just shrugs instead, burrowing into the blankets and leaning into his side. “Okay.”

It’s almost impossible to look at him from this angle, but she spots the quirk of his lips anyway. “That’s it? You’re not going to argue with me any further? Wow. Shocker.”

“Shut up.” She grumps, breathing him in, wonders if she’s imagining the sweet scent of chocolate clinging against his skin. “Are you-- you’re drinking hot chocolate?”

“What?” Bellamy goes, defensive. “I don’t  _ like  _ to drink coffee all the time.”

Muffling a laugh against his chest, she closes her eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

“Go to sleep already, will you?”

“I’m  _ trying  _ to.” She goes, picking at the stray thread hanging from his sweater. It’s hard to, though, considering there was a small, insistent question niggling at her, and before she can overthink it, she blurts out, “how did you-- how did it all start though? The books, that is. The stealing.”

He stiffens by her side, tense as a rock, only relaxing after she fumbles for his hand, interlacing their fingers. The touch soothes him, if anything else, his breath stirring her hair as he exhales sharply.

“It started with my mom,” he says, soft. “She, uh. She always had a reputation, you know? For doing certain stuff to get ahead, I guess. It’s not like she had a choice, it was all she could do to keep us alive. It’s a side effect of growing up dirt poor.” That gets a small laugh out of him, humorless and bitter. “She died when I turned twenty, and there was just about enough money to start up a bookstore.”

Tracing at his knuckles, she swallows, waits for him to continue.

“We did pretty well, for a startup. We weren’t earning a whole lot of money, but it was enough to get by, enough to send off Octavia off to college and to buy some nice stuff for ourselves.” His voice had taken on a absentminded quality, lost in thought. “It was around that time when I started hearing rumors. People talking about how I must be fudging the numbers somehow, using unscrupulous means. Because I’m my mother’s son, right? Can’t be all that different from her.”

The resignation in the statement, the exhaustion in it makes her ache, scrambling to find the right words to say in response and coming up short. She tightens her grip on him instead, nudges at his neck softly.

“A lot of customers stopped coming by, after that. And it didn’t seem to have any point, you know? To fight back? They were always going to think of me like this. Might as well prove them right.” He gives a shaky laugh at that, dropping his head forward abruptly, her lips pressing up against his cheek. “And so here we are.”

There’s nothing left to say, nothing she could do to make him feel better anyway, and the best she can do is breathe his name against his skin, hopes that it’s enough to convey everything she means to say: that she understands, that she empathizes, that he could be forgiven if he wanted to be.

“Maybe,” he goes, in a voice so small she has to strain herself to hear it. “Maybe I just wanted someone to believe I could be good, in the end.”

She finds her voice, her free hand instinctively reaching up to cup his cheek. “You are.”

His responding smile is wry, weary. “You didn’t think so at first.”

“I do now.” She manages, stroking her thumb over the arc of his cheekbone, the purple shadows under his eyes. “And that’s all that matters now, right?”

He lifts his head, careful. “Yeah?”

“That’s all there is.” She tells him, his gaze finding hers, and this time, it feels like he might actually believe it.

 

+

They get some movement at around six in the morning, and it’s her shriek that wakes Bellamy, startling violently and nearly falling over her splayed legs. 

“What?” He asks, bleary-eyed. “What happened?”

“It’s him.” She breathes, tapping on the screen with enough force to push it back. “Bellamy, did you see that? It’s  _ actually  _ him.”

Squinting at the screen, he rubs the grit out of his eyes, glancing up at the crime board once to reaffirm that it is in fact, actually Cage. “Looks like you’re right about this, Clarke.”

Grinning, she pushes aside the scattered cups on the table along with the discarded candy wrappers to grab at the semi-clean napkin under all that mess, scribbling down the number of the specific storage space. “I can’t believe this actually paid off. Can you?” And, on second thought, “do you know how to pick a lock?”

“You know, your faith in me as a master criminal is really giving me a big head.” He says, teasing. “I’m a petty thief, Clarke. I’m as clueless as you are about picking locks.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s fine.” He frowns, leaning closer to the screen, examining the padlock carefully. “I’ll come up with something.” Then, with all the nonchalance in the world, “so how do you feel about breaking and entering, again?”

 

+

If someone had told Clarke that she’d be spending her weekend squatting in a bush, well. She probably would have thought they were joking (or high), but it’s Saturday night and _lo’ and behold._

“Stop it!” She hisses, stamping on his foot when he peers over her shoulder for the fifth time. “You’re smothering me.”

“Me?” Bellamy gapes, gesturing down to the hand she has resting against his thigh. “You’re the one who’s all up in my personal space and clinging onto me!”

“It’s for balance.” She argues, refusing to blush.

“Sure.” He smirks, rocking forward slightly on the balls of his feet, close enough that he’s only a hair’s breadth away. “I know how bad you are at that.”

“Learnt from the best.” She quips, staying right where she is. It’s an exercise of willpower, really, to keep from looking at his mouth and doing something potentially stupid after, so she mostly focuses on the space between his eyebrows instead. “Just-- remember to give the signal when it’s all clear.”

He shoots her a pointed look. “Can’t do that if you’re going to get on my case for looking over your shoulder now, can I?”

“Fine,” she huffs, turning away so he wouldn’t see the blush staining her cheeks. (Look, explaining that their current proximity was distracting her would be a bad idea anyway.) “Just do your job.”

“I’m  _ trying _ .”

They spend another five whole minutes bickering lowly under their breath until Bellamy notices the change in guards shift, which signals that it’s time to move; making use of the ensuing chaos to scurry past them and scale the fence towards the back entrance.

“Easy, easy.” He coaxes as she scrambles her way down the fence, the hard edges of wire digging into her palms and making her wince with it. The worry on his face would be comical if she had time to dwell on it, hands outstretched and ready to catch her, his sigh of relief loud in the quiet of the night when her feet hit the ground.

“You didn’t have to stand around dithering.” She tells him, fond, reaching out to tap at tense set of his jaw quickly before snatching her hand away. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

“Yeah I did.” He mutters, following behind her as they dart into the building, flattening themselves against the wall when someone breezes past.

Exhaling shakily at the close call, she checks the wrist watch strapped to her wrist. “We have about fifteen minutes before the guard loops back here.”

“Get going.” He says, terse, his palm a comforting weight against her spine as they race down the corridor.

Clarke counts off the storage units as they pass, nearly stumbling over her own feet in her haste when they stop at number seventeen, Bellamy already reaching for the wire cutters from his duffel whilst she tries to catch her breath.

He manages a grim laugh when she catches his eye, casting the padlock aside and yanking the shutters up in a single, fluid motion. “No time for subtlety, right?”

“That’s right.” She breathes, before stepping into the dark space ahead of them, reaching for the light switch.

The first thing she notices are the mounted whiteboards, the rows of surveillance photos taped haphazardly on them. She recognizes the victims right off the bat- having memorized their faces from the hours of going through their files- though that’s about as far as it goes when it comes to identifying people on the board. Taking a deep, even breath, she grabs for her phone, starts snapping photos of everything.

“Are you seeing this?” She asks when Bellamy pulls up next to her.

He’s unnervingly quiet- long enough for her to pause, at least- and when he speaks, it comes out strangled and choked. “It’s-- that’s her. Octavia.”

Instinctively, she takes his hand, steadying him. “It doesn’t mean anything, Bellamy. You can’t be sure.”

“But--”

“Think about it,” she interrupts, working to keep her tone calm. “We don’t recognize more than half the people on this board. Being up on it doesn’t mean she’s next, or that she’s fallen victim to Cage just yet. The worst thing you can do right now is jump to conclusions.” 

His nostrils flare warningly at that, eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. “I know. I know you’re right. It’s just hard not to overreact about it right now.”

She forces a smile. “Good thing I’m here, huh?”

“Yeah.” He breathes, looking away from her, his throat bobbing as he swallows. It morphs into a frown soon enough, his gaze fixed on the far corner of the room. “What-- do you remember what the murder weapon was?”

“Beretta pistol.” Clarke recites, taking a careful step forward. “You think…?”

“We should take it. You guys can get it dusted for prints and compare the bullets used, right?” He says briskly, wrapping his hand in a towel before reaching for it, tying off the remaining fabric before lowering it into his bag. “Get whatever more pictures you need. We need to leave in five.”

Nodding, she snaps a few more cursory shots off the room before grappling for the light switch all over again, stepping out so Bellamy could roll the shutters back down, pocketing the broken padlock as they went.

They’re about a corridor away from the exit when she hears the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps- growing louder in volume with each second- and she registers the panic in his eyes before she grabs at his arm, yanking him further into the maze of corridors.

“Hey!” He whispers, jerking in her grip, forcing them into a stop. “Listen.”

It’s an unmistakable sound; more footsteps heading directly their way, blocking off their exit. White, hot panic squeezes at her throat, making it hard to breathe, the fluorescent lights from above burning against her skin, and--

Swearing, he pushes her up against the wall, looming over her despite their meagre height difference. “Listen, I have an idea. But you’re going to have to trust me on this.”

Her laugh sounds hysterical to her own ears. “It’s not like I have much of a choice, right?”

“ _ Clarke _ .”

She takes in a deep gulp of air, finds herself calming under his gaze. “Yeah. I trust you.”

The edges of his mouth tick upwards at that. “Good.” He says, wry, his palm searing hot when he reaches up to cup her face. “Probably because this only works if you don’t punch me in the face after.”

There’s a moment of heart-stopping, absolute panic, and then he’s  _ kissing  _ her and it all just sort of melts away, everything else fading into quiet except for the pressure of his mouth against hers, the cadence of every drawn breath, her skin sparking under his touch. It feels like drowning and burning all at once, all-consuming and overwhelming, as if she could drift away if it wasn’t for his weight over hers. 

He pulls away at the shout that sounds behind them (though it sounds more exasperated than panicked, which Clarke takes to be a good sign), his thumb still stroking along the line of her jaw, and she can’t help but wonder if it’s the same for him, if the kiss had changed anything (and everything) he’d ever thought of her, the moment cleaving them cleanly into before and after.

Clarke had never allowed herself to consider the possibility that they could be partners before- in every sense of the word- that they could be something beyond friends and unlikely allies and everything else that had come in between. It felt impossible, at the time, a fantasy, even. But now, with everything that has happened, with everything that has transpired between them, the thought of being with anyone else  _ but  _ him felt unthinkable, a slow, dawning realization:  _ it’s you. It will always be you. _

Stumbling away, he raises his arms in the air, giving a rogish, teasing smile. “Officers, is there a problem here?”

“Yeah.” One of them starts, frowning. “You’re not supposed to be here unless you own a storage space, sir. And seeing how I  _ don’t  _ recognize you--”

“We were just here to accompany a friend.” Bellamy interjects smoothly, a far-cry from the stumbling, stuttering mess from all those weeks back and she has to bite at her lip to hide her surprise. “But my girlfriend and I got distracted, of course, and we must have wandered off. I mean,” he gives a incredulous, delighted laugh, “can you blame me?”

The suspicion from before is replaced by a kind of resigned annoyance, and they’re dismissed with an impatient jerk of the head. Being mindful not to run, she leans purposefully into his side, giving a few errant, stray giggles until they’re emerged into the cool night air.

“Holy shit,” Clarke grins, pulling back. “That worked. That actually  _ worked _ .”

He grins right back, drawing her attention back to his mouth, still wet and swollen and fucking  _ distracting _ . “Did you ever doubt me?”

Composing herself, she manages a quick shrug. “For a good minute there? A little. But you pulled through.”

“It was a team effort.” He smiles, turning over to look at her, the expression on his face sobering seconds after. “What now, Clarke?”

“Easy.” She says, lifting the duffel bag off his shoulder and sliding it on her own, ignoring the sound of protest that he makes immediately after. “It’s time to call it in.”

 

+

Clarke Griffin, twenty four, now  _ officially _ known as Sergeant Griffin around these parts. 

(She takes a picture of Murphy getting everyone’s coffee order today, sends it over to Wells. Victory is goddamned sweet, sometimes.)

 

+

The decision to tell him isn’t an easy one, but it feels  _ right _ , so she does it anyway. 

Bellamy’s reading when she gets in- feet thrown up against the counter and chair tipped back, completely oblivious to her arrival- and she seizes the chance to creep up behind him, lining her mouth up to his ear.

Swallowing back a laugh, she pitches forward, whispering, “that’s how bad eyesight comes about, you know.”

He startles so violently that the chair jerks underneath him, bumping into her thigh and making her shriek with it. “ _ Jesus _ , Clarke!”

“Good morning to you too.” She singsongs, darting out of his way triumphantly when he swipes at her. “Hey! That’s not how you treat the bearer of good news.”

Leering at her, he crosses his arms over his chest. “I already know about your promotion.”  _ And that Octavia’s safe,  _ he doesn’t say, but she’s gotten good enough at reading him to know that’s what he means anyway.

“This is good news for  _ you _ .” She stresses, summoning the best smile she can muster under the circumstances. “And uh, I guess for me too! So. Good news for us, to revise that?”

That gets his attention, at least. “Clarke,” he says, and she can detect the flicker of worry in his voice. “What is it?”

It’s a challenge to keep her voice bright, but she tries her best anyway. “Kane- you know, my dick of a supervisor- he thought you were great throughout the investigation. Thinks you have real potential.” Wrenching her hand out of her own sweaty grip, she retrieves the sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolding it carefully. “So, here you go. Take it.”

He does, his gaze flickering from her to the sheet crumpled between his fingers. “This is an job application.” He says evenly, looking to her for confirmation.

“That’s right.” She manages, wringing her fingers back together. “An application to be my partner at the station, to be more specific. We get to be work buddies.”  _ And only that,  _ she doesn’t add, forcing down a wave of disappointment. “So? How about it?”

“Clarke,” he frowns, setting the paper down onto his desk. “I can’t.” 

She blinks, flummoxed. “Why not? I mean I know there’s the store, but--”

“It’s not about the store.” Bellamy interrupts, impatience melting away to embarrassment almost instantaneously. “It’s, uh. It’s because of you, actually.”

“Me?” Gaping, she jabs a finger towards herself. “Wait, as in,  _ me _ as a person?”

“No!” He yelps, letting loose a growl of frustration as he tugs at his hair, pacing. “Not like that. It’s nothing to do with you as a person, or--”

“You’re rambling.” She says, flat, stepping cleanly into his path and cutting him off. “Just-- is it that bad? Why can’t you tell me?”

Giving a helpless shrug, he makes an incomprehensible noise; close enough that she can feel the gusty, shaky exhale he leaves on her cheek. “I just can’t,” he says finally, meeting her gaze. “I can’t be your work partner, okay? I can’t sit there and smile and pretend I don’t think about kissing you all the time, that I don’t want to be with you every second of the day. It’s  _ exhausting,  _ Clarke, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t feel a certain way about you.”

It’s dizzying, trying to keep up with the array of emotions that course through her, disbelief and shock and ecstasy, a tangled jumble that felt impossible to pick apart. She could feel her smile growing on her face, tears pricking against her eyelids. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He says, gruff, averting his gaze. “Look, and I know you don’t feel the same way, but--”

She flings her arms around him before he can finish the sentence, raining kisses along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, wherever she could reach. “You’re a fucking  _ idiot,  _ Bellamy Blake.” She gasps out, slowing at his surprised, delighted laugh, the touch of his fingers against her face.

“Are you sure?” He asks, staggering forward when she pulls him down for a firm, chaste kiss against his lips. “You’re not mistaken? Or drunk, or--”

“The only one who was mistaken before is  _ you _ .” She reminds him, overbalancing and falling into him instead, face pressed up into the jut of his collarbone. “I like you, okay? Only you. I agonized for so long over if I should tell you, if I  _ deserved  _ to, and it was such a mess.”

“I’m glad you did.” He tells her, earnest, swooping down to kiss her for real before lifting her, his hands braced against the back of her thighs while she laughs into his mouth, dropping off into a squawk when he backs her up into a display case.

“ _ Bell _ .”

“Sorry,” he grins, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m just glad. I’m glad you thought you deserved to.”

She leans closer, pressing their foreheads together. “I just-- I want to be happy. And I feel that the most when I’m with you.”

He surges forward again, kissing and kissing her, breathless with laughter and joy as he hoists her up in his arms once more, murmuring, “as I am with you.”

Beaming, she drops her face down to nuzzle at his cheek. “I’m glad we finally agree on something.”

“Here’s to hoping.” He tells her, solemn, before flipping her up and over his shoulder, carrying her up the stairs and into the apartment; the sound of her laughter trailing them home.

**Author's Note:**

> I was nominated (and won!) several categories for the bellarke fanfiction awards, and I just really wanna thank you guys for voting for me! I am so, so appreciative (though I am terrible at expressing it, ngl) and it's stuff like this + all your sincere, amazing comments + your kudos's that keeps me going and writing, so. Once again, thank you guys, and I love y'all. <3


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